


Strange Bedfellows

by madsthenerdygirl



Series: Your Red Eye Sees No Blame [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6370156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All right, you've got him--he's a sucker for a lust/hate relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2013 and is now being crossposted here with the rest of my work. It's the first in a series of short Naomi/Crowley-centric ficlets that I wrote.

Ah, yes.

Yes, yes, yes…

It's been a long time--how many years exactly, he's not sure, time is so inconsequential when you're nearly immortal--but he remembers her.

Naomi.

It's strange; despite their constipated insistence that they are "genderless" and "celestial wavelengths of self-righteous prick" (maybe not that phrase exactly but close enough), in his vast experience the angels do prefer one gender over another. Take Lucifer, for example. Bloody bastard always identified him--sorry,  _her--_ self as a woman (the irony of ol' Lucy possessing Sam Winchester is enough to make him double over with giggles). Castiel is clearly male (can you say identity crisis, Dean-o?) and Michael couldn't be more stupidly manly if he tried. Gabriel… well, let's just say the betting pool was astounding.

Ahem. Moving on.

Naomi happily--wait, scratch that, no angel would be caught dead expressing something as trite as  _happiness--_ she quite empathetically identified best with females. Now, he'd probably like her even if she was in a male vessel--he's far from pick--but he has to agree. The uptight woman-in-a-man's-world look fits her. The closest comparison, he supposes, would be Hilary Clinton.

Although he's sure the former Secretary of State is a lot less fun in bed.

They first met in Mesopotamia, as he might have mentioned. She wasn't a soldier--never a soldier, oh no, she'd never get her precious hands dirty like that. She's a  _programmer_ , oh, Miss Hoity Toity, making sure the common Seraphs do their duty.

The details of their meeting are complicated and insipid, so he'll just bypass those in favor of the juicy bits. What? That's what you want, isn't it? He's quite good at knowing what people want--including Naomi--and he'll always give it to them. For a price.

They exchanged words that, although sharp and blunt by turns, never actually came to blows, and at some point he got bored and decided that her vessel was quite attractive considering the harsh angles and cold steel in the eyes, two aspects that he's quite certain were a product of the angel, and not the human containing her.

So he kissed her. She was like a statue, solid and cold and still, in a state of lovely shock that he never tires of reducing people to. It's just so  _amusing_ , watching or feeling their bodies freeze up while their thoughts run around in circles like little gerbils. It's like a computer short-circuiting, all those wires exploding and yet nothing's happening.

He keeps going with it, pushing her up against the nearest solid object--in this case, the wall of a temple--and something about that gets her system online again, because she comes alive against him. He expects, of course, for her to shove him away or perhaps try and smite him (ha, as if that would work), but instead she's digging her nails into his scalp, sucking on the tip of his tongue.

Huh. Intriguing.

He applies more pressure with his mouth and pushes her more firmly against the wall. She scrabbles for purchase, her nails raking his shoulders and back now. He loves his tailored suits but sometimes he does miss the good old days when men could wear skirts and covering your chest was optional. Much less fabric to get in the way of things.

He has to refrain from chuckling when he realizes just how much she likes this, the dirty, sinful possessiveness of it, the  _animalistic_  behavior that is supposedly so unlike the sanitized white box that is Heaven. He whispers dirty words in her ear, making sure to include plenty of swear words and explicit descriptions of certain parts of the body.

It only makes her hips gyrate faster, snapping almost, little helpless whimpers escaping her mouth and oh he loves it, loves it loves it loves it, aren't you just a dirty little slut of an angel? If all of them were like her, oh, the fun he'd have, but they aren't, so he'll just have to settle for fucking her until the bleeding wall comes down about their ears. She comes with a gasp that descends into a wrecked moan as he bites savagely at the juncture where her shoulder and neck meet, shuddering as she ruthlessly milks him for all he's worth.

"Let's be sure to do that again sometime, sweetheart," he croons harshly in her ear, and ooh, the violent shiver she gives at that.

He's not at all certain she won't avoid him, pretend that it never happened, pretend that she didn't like it, pretend that she wasn't nearly crying as she pleaded that he get inside her right the fuck now, but he manages to arrange it so that they meet again.

At first he remains hidden, simply observing her, and he has to admit--he's a little impressed with her hard demeanor. The moment he shows himself, however, he has the extreme pleasure of watching her crumble. She stares at him, her breathing shallow and eyes fluttering. He can hear her erratically racing pulse from here.

He approaches slowly, like she's a horse that's going to spook, but the impression he gives must be more like a tiger stalking prey because she is giving him a very good imitation of a terrified deer. He stops, less than a foot away, and flashes his most devilish grin (he practices them in the mirror).

"Missed me, darling?"

They manage to do it on the floor this time, but it's just as dirty--if not more so--than before. She never lets him address her with anything other than respect the rest of the time, but once he's got her pinned he can call her whatever he damn well likes. She's his little slut, a whore just begging him for it, writhing like she's on the rack in the Pit. Ooh. Nice analogy, if he does say so himself. He calls her the worst names, whispers the filthiest things he can conjure up, and she just arches into him and screams all the louder. She has this lovely way of panting, like she's on the run from the thing that goes bump in the night, panicked and desperate and completely out of breath. When humans invent tape recorders he's tempted to go back in time just so he can record those delicious little pants, those sharp inhales. It'd be marvelous blackmail someday--you can bet her superiors would tear their pristinely coifed hair out if they knew just what their star programmer was getting up to. But, more importantly, it'd also be some of the best masturbation soundtrack.

But he doesn't, for reasons that he isn't about to discuss with the likes of you.

For a mad moment, he considers keeping her. She's rough and nasty and wanton, but she's an angel--just on this side of pure that he can taste the defilement in his mouth and it's a hell of a Viagra. She's also tough, hard, and a lovely shade of ruthless. She'd make an excellent right hand. And, of course, the sex is fantastic.

He's still in the throes of decision making when it happens. The Usurpation.

Oh, sure, people have prayed to the One God for years. But the Old Gods still reigned supreme. They were in charge, and they knew it. He was worshipped by hundreds of pathetically loyal mud worms.

And then, somehow, it all goes wrong. And he's on the losing side of a battle, which is certainly not where he wants to be.

So he reinvents himself. Lucifer's made so many demons in the past few years she can't keep track of them, so he presents himself to her as the King of the Crossroad Demons (he's conveniently killed the last one).

It works, of course, but there's an unpleasant side affect. You see, apparently Naomi was just enough of a harlot to fuck an Old God backwards and forwards (and, once, upside down) but fucking a demon is crossing a line.

Because you see, to protect his cover, he can't let her continue to know the truth of who he is. He has to make her think that what she's known is a lie.

At first she's shocked beyond words, stuttering that she doesn't understand, what exactly do you mean, while he just stares at her until the bitch gets it through her thick skull (it's not her fault--all angels are inherently slow on the uptake).

She hits him. Hard. And does that annoying disappearing act. He rubs his sore jaw, shrugs it off, and moves on.

The regret doesn't hit him until the next time he sees her.

It's the fourth vessel she's sported, but as always he can tell that it's her. Nobody else could look like they had a stick up their ass while also looking like they wanted another kind of stick up there.

To her credit, she manages to hold together. He pushes her, of course, being who he is. He slinks up to her, traces his fingers along her jaw, and whispers in her ear. She stands there, stiff as a rod except for the trembling in her hands. When he nips at her earlobe she turns, lightning flashing in her eyes, in the room, around her vessel like a full-body halo, and she informs him on no uncertain terms that he is never to touch her again.

She vanishes. It's supposed to be a victory, so why does it taste like ashes in his mouth?

This time, he doesn't touch her. He paces, teases her about her wayward charge. Castiel has a great talent for pissing off people in power--a trait he undoubtedly learned from the Winchesters. Which reminds him, he forgot to tease Naomi about what broke Castiel. It was Dean, wasn't it, sweetling? Oh dear, another angel lost to a lesser being. I'm sure you don't know what that's like, being all high and mighty. You don't have needs, carnal desires that can only be fulfilled by the representation of all you fight against. Possessiveness fills him, burning him, a fiery vice that grips at his being.

He calms his breathing, realizing that he's clenching his teeth and almost foaming at the mouth. He's also, apparently, smashed his fist through a wall. When did that happen?

He calms himself, straightens his outfit, and smoothes his hair. If he was in this game before--well, he's definitely plunging in headfirst now. It's not just about survival. He has a point to make, and a prize to earn. Step one, stop the Winchesters from closing the Gates. Step two, torture and kill said Winchesters. No, wait--step two, torture Castiel and make Dean watch. No, reverse that. No… oh, well, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. He thinks he'll just toss Sam in with Lucy, grab an extra large bag of popcorn for the show.

As for step three…

He's curious as to how desperate two thousand years of celibacy has made Naomi.

His lips curl upwards into a snake's grin, and he cracks his knuckles. What can he say? He has a weakness for lust-hate relationships.

It's time for some fun.


End file.
